Primordial ooze. Prebiotic soup.
More like broth brought to a boil at 27 million degrees.
Liquid stirred with love sticks, melting faces of our birth,
aerodynamic teardrops, viscous martyrs for life.
Sometimes I forget how big the world is,
how this city could eat me alive,
slurp me down as an appetizer,
thinking only of the real meal yet to come.
A potion prepared on the melting pot stovetop:
- Goose liver
- Whale fat
- Sandpaper tiger tongue
- Tears of a non-virgin, 30-something, too-far-from-home, ex-pat, walking-through, Chicago-proper
Chemical compounds forced by nature
into a body built by
broken hearts and sturdy hands
and minds that mixed up
arc angles with arch angels,
on each other,
into wine we just can’t drink anymore.
So onward we march,
holding our phones
like we used to hold each other
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